’ She let out a peal of laughter. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. He had mentioned teaching her how to read Latin one day when she had wandered into the library. One swift glance about the room, and a sensation of grim foreboding swept through him. But in the train going home her aunt reasoned it out. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. She turned with an effort. Love stories!… A sob rushed into her throat, and to smother it she buried her face in a pillow. ” The corners of her lips rose along with her eyebrows. “If I do,” he said. “I am sick of it. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone.
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